Four hours
by PrettyLittleJumper
Summary: In the hours during the pool, a nervous Lestrade is paired with a anxious John Watson waiting while Sherlock is in a crital condition. Warnings: Bad language from Scotland Yard Detectives and near character death.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This might be three or four chapters long. It's based on a spoiler I saw for the next series, won't tell you what it is in case you haven't seen it. Some bad language (mostly from Scotland Yard Detectives). Spoilers for The Great Game, but if you haven't seen it yet you need to see it soon.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or the BBC, or even Mark Gatiss. All I own is this storyline and my laptop that I used to write this story on.

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><p><em>Four hours <em>Lestrade thought to himself. _Four hours with Moriarty. _"Bloody hell" Lestrade said, running a hand through his greying hair.

The day had already been tense from the beginning when a body was found washed up upon the Thames. This Moriarty, who had possibly captured Sherlock and John, was behind the madness which had caused half of New Scotland Yard to go into total meltdown. Already he had murdered two dozen people, what was going to stop him from killing more? Well there was one person but no one wanted to admit that they _did _need Sherlock. _If he isn't dead already. No don't think that Lestrade, of course he's alive. He has to be alive._ They had seen what he had done for fun (blowing up people), they had seen what he had done to people who he didn't like (if Carl Powers was anything to go by). So the one question which was on his mind was what did he do to people he got angry with? He honestly did not want to find out.

The Detective was snapped back to reality when his radio crackled into life. Lestrade could just about make out the voice of Dimmock above the shouting of pedestrians and sirens of ambulances and police cars. "Anything new happened in the pool. We've just got a call from a Mr Mycroft Holmes..." At the mention of Sherlock's brother Lestrade gave a groan as if to say 'Oh God not him'. There was a pause on the other end of the line before Dimmock replied "Oh, so I presume you've met Sherlock's brother then. That bastard. He kept asking me whether we had any information on a man named Jim Moriarty, who's a Professor working as a I.T tech in St Barts." Just as Dimmock had finished the sentence Lestrade received a text which he knew who it was from before opening it.

_Text message received: 01:32_

_Any information on Moriarty or my brother would be helpful. Especially since I could get your whole department fired with a click of my fingers, threatening is not my style yet you have forced me to do it.__  
><em>_MH_

Lestrade was in the middle of forming a sarcastic reply to the elder Holmes; which involved the words bastard, diet and hell, when something (or rather someone) unexpected was seen. Out of the shaddows hobbled a pale, short, sandy-haired man. Lestrade's conscience screamed only one thing. _Oh my God it's John Watson._

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><p><em>Mwha ha ha. Leaving it on a cliff-hanger. Just call me Steven Moffat. Reviews would be helpful, this is my first fic so apologies for any bad grammar or a rubbish plotline.<em>


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: After looking through my first chapter I noticed some _really_ bad spelling mistakes which I have tried to correct (how embarrassing =D) I've got nothing much better to be doing so here's the next chapter, might as well get something done and it's a lot better than shooting the wall like a certain Consulting Detective.  
>And now for the boring bit, I don't own Sherlock or the characters, blah blah blah. Now let's get back to the story.<p>

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><p><em>Out of the shadows hobbled a pale, short, sandy-haired man. Lestrade's conscious screamed only one thing<em>. _Oh my God it's John Watson._

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><p>On closer inspection, John looked like he had aged 50 years in a day. His eyes drooped heavily but considering the state he was in you would not expect anything less. After standing in complete awe for what seemed like a millennium, the voice of Sergeant Donovan broke the silence from afar. "Get this man over here" She screamed giving orders to all the policemen available. But it was only Lestrade who noticed something amiss about John. <em>His face, it looks so emotionless <em>he thought to himself. _But that isn't possible; John has always something to say. It's Sherlock who seems like he doesn't have any emotion. Sherlock? Sherlock! _

_"_SHERLOCK! Where's Sherlock?"

John tried to speak but all that came out was hoarse cough which made him cringe and hold his ribs. He breathed in and out slowly and calmly trying again. Knowing he would not last long speaking, he chose his words carefully. "Mo..ria...rty Sh...erl...ock B...om...b". At first the look on Lestrade's face was anxiousness, which then quickly turned into realisation, finally turning into horror and sheer bloody panic.

"Oh fucking hell. Are you serious? Wait don't answer that. I can believe he'd get into a situation like this." Once again Lestrade was resorting to running his fingers through his hair, muttering 'bloody hell' under his breath.

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><p>It had been only 10 minutes since John exited the pool, and since then John had been ushered to an awaiting ambulance, refused to go to hospital and to top it all off John had tried to contact Mycroft (who he now called 'The Brother From Hell'), but his P.A kept saying "<em>Sorry, Mr. Holmes is dealing with an urgent situation, if you give me your number then he will get back to you within the next couple of days<em>." To which John always kept replying "_This IS an urgent situation! His brother is currently facing a murdering maniac who has a bomb next to him!_" _All she could say was 'oh'_ John thought to himself. While sitting in the back of an ambulance, legs swinging forward and backwards.

Currently Lestrade was both shouting down the phone and giving the paramedics terrible headaches. "What do you mean four hours!...Yes I know there are worse situations...no, I do want a bomb squad out...yes...2 people...they are important...Sherlock Holmes and... Hello? Hello!" This was the last straw for Lestrade as his phone the next second went crashing against the floor, smashing into a million pieces.

"Since those two _Psychopaths_ inside the pool have not worked anything out yet..." Sergeant Donovan began to say because without prior warning the pool then exploded, engulfing the surrounding area with debris and fire.

TBC... (Duh, Duh, Duh)

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><p><em>I can guess what you are thinking 'why is the world letting this mad person write fics with cliff-hangers in?' Thank you for all the reviews I received, and thank you for reading my story. There's no point in writing one unless people read them.<em>

_EDIT: Guess what? The spoiler I found out had nothing to do with what I thought it was. But still might as well finish the story _

_(NOW DOES NOT INVOLVE ANY SPOILERS THAT I KNOW OF)_


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Sorry for not updating for a long time, my laptop's motherboard short circutied, causing me to lose the current chapter. No worries I have re-written it, and added some more because of it.

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><p><em>"Since those two Psychopaths inside the pool have not worked anything out yet..." Sergeant Donovan began to say because without prior warning the pool then exploded, engulfing the surrounding area with debris and fire.<em>

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><p>To stand there and see the pool crumble and collapse before their eyes was like being given a reality check. Everyone knew who was inside the building but few had tearful eyes. Lestrade had to restrain John from running back inside, though that didn't stop him from trying. They all knew it would be a suicide mission trying to rescue (what they hoped not were) the bodies without waiting until the flames had died down.<p>

John could feel the firm grasp of the Detective's hands pulling him back further away from the rubble which was once the pool. He was glad Lestrade was holding him back, then no-one could see the tears dripping down his cheeks. _Man up John, you've seen worse. Sherlock might not be dead, people have survived a lot worse, _one part of John said. But the other just kept trying to forget what he had just witnessed. _It should be me. If I don't go in there he's going to definitely die, and then what would I say to Mrs. Hudson? Or even Mycroft. Mycroft. He was right when he said to me when we first met 'Bravery is the kindest word for stupidity'. _

And then Lestrade did the wrong thing. He let go of John. Just for a second. But that one decision, in one second, changed the whole series of events that were to follow.

John ran. Ran faster than he ever had before. Faster than when running from a bomb in Afghanistan. Faster than when he ran with Sherlock when they were chasing the cabbie. He didn't know where he was going, he had only one motive. _Find Sherlock. Get Sherlock._ Under every rock, next to every piece of rubble. And then he saw it. A gun, his gun. The last time he had saw it was when it was in the hand of Sherlock. John treaded with carefulness over to where it was lying on the ground. He knelt down onto the ground, and brushed his fingers over it; taking in every detail like it would be the last time to see it. The world around John stopped momentarily as he heard the shallow, ragged breaths which he knew could be from only one person. _Sherlock_. He turned on his heel instinctively, like he did when he was in the army. John's eyes scanned the area looking for anything out of the ordinary. _Rock. Rubble. Rubble. Rock. Metal. Hand. Rock. Hand? _

"SHERLOCK!" In front of John, now laid the body of his flatmate. _No friend, best friend. _John's teeth were chattering in the cold February air but it did not distract him in the task at hand. A pulse. He needed to find a pulse. Something that would tell him that Sherlock was clinging onto life. His fingers scrabbled over the pale wrists, which were then rewarded with a faint pulse. It was not much, but it was there. John didn't know whether Lestrade had followed him, all he could see was the moon above his head and a hole which had led him to where he currently was. John knew what he was going to do was risky, but it would be unlikely that a gurney would reach the battered and bruised body of Sherlock. So with all his strength he acquired from while in Afghanistan, he bent down and scooped his flatmate up. This new found weight caused John to groan slightly, but he showed no sign of protest. After all 1) This was Sherlock and he would never win, and 2) He was unconscious so whatever he said would take no affect on his flatmate.

Slowly John put one foot in front of another, dodging metal and brick which was densely scattered across the floor, of the once stable pool. it took several minutes to find where he had started from but he could now feel the cold winter air biting at his face. If it wasn't for carrying Sherlock, John would have been rubbing his hands together, trying to create some sort of warmness in the cold and bitter night.

Everything was becoming much clearer now, the outlines of Donovan and Anderson, the police cars, and the form of Lestrade rushing towards John with a look of fear and exhaustion on his face.

"Is he..."Lestrade gulped "Is he dead?" Though he managed to finish the sentence, everyone around them could see (and had known prior) that both men were genuinely concerned about the Consulting Detective.

The next minutes passed like a blur for John and Lestrade, Sherlock's (still unconscious) form was placed onto an awaiting gurney and bundled into an ambulance. Both men were allowed into the ambulance since they were being treated for shock. Too much of John's amusement, a bright orange shock blanket was placed over Sherlock while he was stripped of his suit jacket and shirt. An IV line, heart monitor and Oxygen mask were placed, but it did not ease John the thought that it should be him not Sherlock. John must have said the last sentence out loud because the next minute Lestrade put his arm around John and was softly speaking words of comfort to him.

"Come on mate, he'll pull through. Trust me he's been in far worse situations, this, this in nothing. If it weren't for the fact that he's unconscious, he would be up and about refusing to go anywhere but home." This made John smile.

"Yeh, that would be very Sherlock. Thanks Greg, I just hope what you say is true. Who will then annoy Donovan ? Certainly not me, apparently she can pack a right punch. Wait, did you find Sherlock's coat?"

"No. Why you ask?"

"Oh my God, he's gonna go mad!" John replied wiping tears from his eyes. "Do you think I should buy another one for him? I mean, he was sort of attached to it. And I'd be surprised if he had another."

"Do you know where he got it from? And what about his scarf." Momentarily they both sat in silence before several staccato beeps were heard to which both John and Lestrade chimed "Mycroft." John rummaged in his pocket and produced battered phone with many scratches on. When he found the most recent text message, John let out a small chuckle before handing the phone to the Lestrade.

_The coat comes from Belstaff, though your bill would be for £1350.__  
><em>_I'll get my PA to drop one over for Sherlock when he recovers.__  
><em>_As for the scarf I have no idea where it comes from but I will get a look-alike one._

_Mycroft_

It was surely going to be a long night.

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><p><em>Hopefully there might be a sequel to this story, depending on how popular it is. So don't forget to read and review :D And yes his coat does cost that much. I can see why the BBC needs cutbacks!<em>


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